April 30, 2013

Yarn Shop Follies



I am going to amaze you.  Sit down and take a deep breath.

We got LOST on the way to the yarn shop.  There.  You’re amazed, right?

Have we ever not got lost on the way to the yarn shop?  Whichever yarn shop is on offer on a day Fiona and I are loose, together and dangerous?  Barring the little one which I have to go out of my way not to walk past on the way to the abbey*, so even I would probably have some difficulty failing to find it.  Fiona could try putting a bag over my head and spinning me in a circle. . . . That would probably work. . . .

I do feel that perhaps Fiona went out of her way to ensure we got lost today.  We’ve been to this shop before** and we both know it’s sort of  . . . that way.  Fiona apparently decided that this was sufficient.  I was a trifle taken aback that she hadn’t turned her possessed-by-demons—I mean her excellent, tactful and reliable satnav on but . . . the driver is god.  And I’m way too happy not to be driving.  And if there was a paper atlas in the car . . . when the ME is gnawing on me you really don’t want me navigating for you.***  So we set out for Opprobrium.  Turpitude is just beyond it.  Sort of.  It’s sort of suspended between Opprobrium and Prinkle-on-Weald in what is a very unhelpful manner†, rather Tir-nan-Og-like, there not really being any roads between here and there.  You have to kind of sneak up on it while whistling a little tune and looking in another direction—a bit like catching a slightly tricky horse in a too-large field.

So you are approaching Opprobrium and there are like fourteen roundabouts in the space of about fifty yards, each of which is bristling with sixty-seven road signs saying things like Tibet * —>5000 miles and London—>you want to turn around and go back the way you came and town centre—>MWA HA HA HA GO HOME.   There was a sign for Turpitude, but there were poisonous snakes and a lot of guys with swords, and we lost our nerve.  We took the town centre option.

Now I know Opprobrium a little, and I was under the semi-erroneous impression that Turpitude was roughly on the other side of it to the right, and that when we came out the other end there would be another sign indicating a road to Turpitude, and maybe this one would be free of poisonous snakes and big ugly guys with swords and maybe there would be fewer than nine-hundred-and-thirty-seven other signs to confuse us.††

No.  No sign.  No sign at all except to things like the recycling centre and Greater Footling which we knew we didn’t want.  We were most of the way to Surfeit by the time Fiona folded, pulled into one of those extremely dubious-looking parking areas off the motorway where you’re sure poisonous snakes and big ugly guys with swords and a bad attitude hang out, and turned her satnav on.†††  The worst of this is that when we did, in fact, get to Turpitude, and blasted Billy comes over all smug and says that we can thank him now because it was only possible with him and without him we would have been hopelessly lost, rather than throwing things at the windscreen we had to say YES BILLY WE KNOW BILLY SHUT UP BILLY.‡

And the yarn shop?  Because we wasted so much time on the road I didn’t have a chance to get into NEARLY ENOUGH TROUBLE.‡‡

* * *

* Fortunately it’s usually shut at standard bell ringing hours.  Woe for daytime weddings and other one-offs however.  And it’s even worse than that:  this little yarn shop likes dogs.  I’ve taken both hellhounds and hellterror ALTHOUGH NOT ALL AT THE SAME TIME in there and they smile and croon and whip out photos of their hellcritters.  So you can be having a perfectly straightforward alternative hurtle on a beautiful day when you felt like getting in the car and going somewhere else, maybe looking for otters on the river^, and suddenly, on the way back to the car park . . . yarn fumes.  And your hellcritters can’t save you.

^ Which seem to be pretty blasé about tourists going oooooh, and whose den or nest or lodge or what you call it is out of reach.

** We’ve been to pretty much every yarn shop in Hampshire at this point and may be forced to widen our range, perhaps into Doorstep and Suffix.  We particularly have our eye on Smite-the-Infidel in Wiltingshire, where there is a rumour of three yarn shops.  Be still our hearts.  Be terrified our credit cards.

*** Pride or, if you prefer, vanity, insists that I insert here that when I’ve got a few neurons firing I’m not at all bad with a paper map.

† I realise, having now got home again and looked at a paper map.

†† 67 x 14 – 1 = 937.  I think.  I hadn’t regularly done arithmetic in decades . . . till I started frelling knitting.  Now it’s like um, yardage?  Um.  How many?  Um.  If Wicked On Line Yarn Shop is having a sale of 17.5% off but the frelling skeins are only 82 yards long so I need a lot of them, how much is it going to cost to make that car cozy?  AAAAUGH.  Maybe I could knit it on bigger needles.  Better drape. . . .

††† We could have just gone to the yarn shop in Opprobrium.^  Or we could have taken a slight sideways sidle and gone back to the one in Frellingham.  But noooooo.  We had decided on Turpitude^^ and Turpitude was what we were going to have.

^ Yes we have.  I’m sure I blogged about it.  Opprobrium also has two old-books shops and we DROVE PAST ONE OF THEM today and Fiona with a swift, sure gesture hit the central locking on the car before I could get out.  Hey!  I bought TANGLEWRECK there!  It’s a good shop!

^^ sic

‡ I think I have told you Fiona’s satnav speaks in Billy Connolly’s voice.  I’m here to tell you that even a Scottish accent only gets you so far.

‡‡ Fiona did though.  Fiona has an amazing talent for yarn trouble.  And I did manage to buy a pattern for some yarn I’d bought a different pattern for and decided it wasn’t what I wanted but I really liked the yarn, and you yarnies out there will know how this story goes:  I’m one skein too short for the new pattern.

* WORDPRESS I BLOODY HATE YOU.  I have a beautiful arrow sign here and frelling WordPress is giving me a frelling a with an accent grave over it.  GO. AWAY.  So I guess I have to replace all my lovely arrows with stupid dashes. . . .^

^ Okay.  I may have recreated ARROWS.  ::holding breath::  ::punching PUBLISH button::+

+ Well . . . they’re not nearly as good as the original arrows. . . .


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